


Tattyboggle

by morpheusly



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:18:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morpheusly/pseuds/morpheusly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James hates it when bits of his past surfaces. He really does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tattyboggle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skylights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/gifts).



> For @skylights who wanted James and a Scottish brogue. Such is my lame duck attempt.

James tried counting down from ten in his head, making sure to use at least three non-Germanic languages for each number. But by the time he reached ‘one’ in Korean, M was _still_ nattering on.

“The locals were at least quite appreciative of my efforts,” he tried, affecting an injured tone and was rewarded with the slow whitening of knuckles around a fine Montecristo No.2 (James should know – he had taken the trouble to hand-deliver it to M’s desk right before he slapped down the Ebetsu report). Although it seemed, to judge by how the cigar was slowly getting crushed, his efforts were _not_ appreciated by his superior.

“You were _specifically_ informed to bring down Yoshihito by any means necessary, double-oh-seven, but there are _limits_. There are…” M made an incomprehensible gesture that involved a lot of hand-waving and bits of cigar flying about. “— _gentlemen_ ways about it! Not distributing full-colour, A4-size photos of the thrice-damned yakuza lord buggering his boytoy to every one of his rivals! And to his neighbours! And for God’s sake man! His daughter too?”

“She was a fine bitch and I do not mean in the canine sense.”

“ _James Arthur Tiberius Bond!_ ”

 ***

Q whistled in admiration as Bond settled his weary frame in visitor’s chair right next to a desk so cluttered, the Quartermaster’s favourite mug was in danger of teetering over from its lofty perch on top of three, slightly smoking hard drives. James eyed the mug warily but it seemed even gravity obeyed Q’s every whim and the mug remained, safe and defying every law of nature.

“Two hours, fifty-three minutes and seven point two seconds,” he was cheerfully informed. “Longest M-scolding for this quarter, beating out double-oh-nine’s by a slim margin of fifty-nine seconds. I won this week’s pool, thanks to you, double-oh-seven.”

“Ta,” was all he managed to grunt, nodding thanks for the mug of cocoa Q pressed into his trembling hands. Not fatigue, never so mundane as that. Only a dangerous cocktail of old-fashioned sodium pentothal mixed with over eight hundred milligrams of caffeine and two other chemical compounds he had never heard of wielded by a hypodermic-obsessed yakuza daughter with a sadistic streak wider than the Thames. He managed to swipe the last vial of the home-brewed truth serum, right after he snapped the bitch’s neck and had it dropped off at the lab before his dressing down with M. James wondered vaguely if the whites down in the med lab would warn him if he was in danger of a heart attack.

 _Maybe not_ , he concluded with the humour of the dangerously exhausted. The lab guys were second on the “Stop Letting Bond Play With Dangerously Expensive Stuff” fanclub, he heard. Right on top were Q’s own little elves after all, never mind that the head elf himself had seemed to develop an almost morbid curiosity to see just how creatively the double-oh agent could wreak damage and havoc on expensive tech.

 But Q knew him best.

Better even, than the one before, though he was fond of the Third Q (funny how in his mind he capitalized the numbers of Q he had gone through but he did. It hurt less that way) who slipped him liqueur chocolates in his pockets after trying missions. Sweet, even if he was more of a tyrant with his gadgets than the Fourth Q could ever be.

But Q knew him best, which was why as soon as he drained the first mug of cocoa, it was swiftly replaced with another, this one chock full of melting, gooey marshmallows and the infusion of sugar and chocolate settled his worn out and snapped nerves.

“You’re a right angel, love,” he muttered into the depths of the mug, eyes heavier than the first edition King James Bible that had burned down with the rest of Skyfall.

“Had to party too much again?” Q asked, kind, but a little condescending as though he had never seen James limping back to Headquarters bloodied and beaten up (although maybe he never did, since James always made sure to hide the worst of the bruises).

And James was too tired to correct him, too tired to bother shoring up the last vestiges of frayed control.

“Absolutely moagered thanks to a fly Fifer o’ a bitch. Kindae g’daff it.”

And froze, previously heavy eyes widening in horror.

“Thank you very much for the drink, Q.” Before the bewildered young man could say a word, before any mention could be made of his completely embarrassing lapse, James Bond, secret agent loyal to Queen and country, ran away.

 ***

A/N: Sucks, I know. But at least I wrote something? Ha. Ha. Ha.

 

 


End file.
